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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567071">Driptorch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/scuttlingclaws/pseuds/scuttlingclaws'>scuttlingclaws</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>but shipping isn't really the point, even some arvis/sigurd if ya wanna read it like that, i mean i guess there's some sigurd/deirdre as well as a lil arvis/deirdre, no beta we die like sigurd, some description of corpses and battle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:26:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567071</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/scuttlingclaws/pseuds/scuttlingclaws</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some men are kindling, and some are fire; occasionally, some can fulfill both roles. A look at Arvis, Emperor of Flame.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Driptorch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I feel like villains are the most fun to write. Genealogy, in my opinion, has the best story of all the FE games I've played and has so much fanfic potential lmao.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Many were surprised at Lord Arvis's disposition upon meeting him. He was calm and analytical, where one might assume he would be hotheaded and rash due to the fire in his veins. Those people were fools, Arvis thought. They feared the flames; the destructive power of fire ran amok in their minds, indiscriminately torching and singeing all in its path. To them, all fire was akin to that of their hearth with too many logs placed upon it, growing too large for a lesser man to control. Luckily for Grannvale, Arvis was not a lesser man.</p><p>His flames were controlled, as small or as large as the situation necessitated. From a spark he could create a wildfire, and tame that very same wildfire into a glowing ember whenever he pleased. That was exactly why his country needed someone like him in power. He was not a man of fear; no amount of obscurity could shroud his vision with the power of Valflame, a flickering torch in the darkness, within his grasp. Unlike Langobalt or Reptor, he did not simply intend to grab influence nor manipulate the power the gods had seen fit to bestow upon him for his own selfish gain. Where the others were kindling, burned up in mere seconds with the shortest strike of flint, Arvis was most akin to a candle; he was made to withstand the flame, making a use for himself beyond the instant gratification of watching kindling burn up into thin wisps of smoke. He intended to burn for far longer, serving a greater purpose.</p><p>With the light of Valflame and the blood of Saint Maera in his veins, Arvis intended to reshape Grannvale in a vision that would suit all of its inhabitants. A world free of discrimination, where all could live and prosper; where no person's mettle was based entirely upon the station of their birth, but rather the skill and power they grew to possess. He had to remind himself of this vision, if only to block out the sights before him. </p><p>It was...regrettable that Lord Sigurd of Chalphy had to find his end here, brought down by the meteor spells the Roten Ritter rained upon the rebel army. While one could grow used to the smell of charred flesh when exposed to it enough, there was something particularly heavy about the scent that hung in the air. Perhaps because his own dear brother's ashes swirled in the alongside those of his comrade's. The flames did not discriminate, no matter how Arvis wished he could have saved him. But there was some comfort to be had in the idea that their deaths would not be in vain. They died to create the foundation of a better world, one where this would never have to happen again.</p><p>Arvis looked down, and saw Sigurd struggle to lift himself up. The scion of Chalphy raised his hand, skin and muscle sloughing off as he reached, reached towards the very man who ended his life. </p><p>Just before Sigurd's skeletal hand brushed against his robes, Arvis awoke with a start. It had been so long since the Battle of Belhalla, yet the image of Sigurd and his army often haunted him in his dreams. It always ended the same way, Sigurd always trying to grasp at him; perhaps to try and offer one final blow before he himself succumbed to the flames.</p><p>Those very same flames had been snuffed out by the hands of the Loptyrian cult - the same ones that Arvis had sought to protect within his Empire. Perhaps this was his own penance to pay; his path was stained with blood, and he supposed when enough poured out, the fire would cease to exist. His new world had existed for a pitifully small amount of time before his son, his own flesh and blood, became corrupted by the dark tome Loptous. Despite spending his entire life gathering enough kindling to fuel the flames of justice for eons, the oil Manfroy had thrown upon it ate through the tinder far too quickly.</p><p>There was no use dwelling on the past, now. Arvis had already mourned enough, burned enough. He once stood tall and proud, but was now a puddle of wax; a far cry from the pillar that once guarded Belhalla. He now stood in Chalphy, sent to his death by his own son. While his wax may have been no more, there was still some length good for burning on his wick. With the last bit of it, he sent off Bishop Palmark with the children in the castle alongside the Holy Tyrfing and hoped that Sigurd's son would be a match for his own.</p><p>When the same sword he bested all those years ago came tearing through his abdomen, Arvis could only feel grateful. He was not afraid to die, unafraid to be remembered by history as a tyrant. His death would mean a better future, a foundation for the world that slipped through his fingers like sand. He closed his eyes, the names of his beloved wife and daughter pouring out of his lips alongside his blood. When he opened them, the same sight that had haunted him for years appeared before him.</p><p>Sigurd, this time, was unburnt by his Hellfire and had Deirdre by his side. Once again he reached out towards the Emperor, his face graced with a smile rather than charred beyond recognition. </p><p>This time Arvis reached back, grasping Sigurd's hand in his.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title comes from a tool used to create controlled fires! Was gonna originally title this piece Controlled Burn but Driptorch sounds a lot cooler, I think.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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